Bethlehem Read online

  It had been a rainy Saturday in April when Helen walked into her daughter’s bedroom to find her at the wardrobe, dressing for the day. Susannah had her back to the door; she turned as it opened, pulling the garment down quickly. But not quickly enough. Against the weak, gray light of the window, the reason for her late preference for the new drop-waist dress style was revealed in a softly curving silhouette. And that was the beginning of another confederacy, another unsolicited compact.

  The first one had been formed in the ghastly pandemonium of the darkest Christmas hours. Assumptions had been made, circumstances overlooked. It didn’t occur to Hollins that his wife and daughter had not just rushed out, as he had—tying his dressing robe on the fly. The shattering crash hadn’t even reached India, asleep in her bedroom at the far end of the hall, much less Kit, slumped in subterranean senselessness. And so, as Susannah stood frozen amid the jagged, glistering glass, Helen let the misconception lie. It wasn’t conscious at first, but what had begun as mute shock became tacit consensus. What purpose would be served by divulging the details? It wouldn’t change anything. The accepted premise was that Chap had tried to make his intoxicated way to a guest room and had somehow fallen into the window—a horrific fluke of proximity. It was the only plausible explanation. In the aftermath, the grief that hung over the house was so heavy, it suffocated any possibility for further conjecture. No one could bear to dwell on the scenario.

  After the funeral, there hadn’t been any reason for Kit and India to stay in Bethlehem. The idea of returning to regular routine seemed so ludicrous as to be surreal, but there wasn’t a case to be made for remaining at home to stare at the echoing walls. The dismal fact was that life had to go on. Even Wyatt went back to New Haven. It was the only thing to do. His grief was so dense that Susannah’s conspicuous impassivity did not penetrate it—he couldn’t see that she was now just a mannequin, posed in lifeless inexpression. He left with no more awareness than when he had arrived. And eventually he took up his pen again, reaching out to grasp for Susannah’s hand as the oceanic chop slammed against him. As before, he needed her to keep him from going under. He didn’t know that this time the icy waters covered them both.

  Susannah was in the conservatory, a thick-bound copy of The Age of Reason resting on her lap, when her mother brought the letter in. Taking a seat next to her daughter, Helen held the envelope in her own lap. There was just a single page inside, but it was heavier by far than Paine’s treatise, and the look she gave Susannah held volumes of its own.

  “This isn’t going to be easy, Sass.” Her eyes brimmed with pity and sorrow. “But you can’t let him sense that he has lost you, too. It would be too much. You have to find it in yourself to help him. Not just for Wyatt, but also for Chap.” She held the envelope out. “As Mrs. Roosevelt said, you must do the thing you think you cannot do.” When Susannah didn’t move, Helen stood and laid it gently on top of the Paine, and then walked out of the room.

  Susannah had no concept of how much time had passed when she finally opened the letter. She held it in her hands for so long, her fingers seemed to have frozen in a clutch; when her index finger slid under the lip of the seal, she nearly jumped. Her hand moved with a will of its own, extracting the page and unfolding it.

  Dear Sass,

  Are you reading this at night? If I could talk to you, I would want it to be in the dark. I don’t like doing anything in the daylight now. It doesn’t feel right. The sun is some kind of terrible joke. And nothing matters anymore. In class I feel like I’m just waiting for a train. Today I was watching my professor’s lips moving, and I could have sworn no sound was coming out. And then he called on me, and for a minute I didn’t recognize my name. I don’t know who I am now. It doesn’t seem possible there can be a Wyatt Collier without a Chap Collier. I had a brother. I had my brother. That’s who I was.

  I wish you had known him like I did. I mean, I realize you knew him as long as you’ve known me, but there are a lot of things you didn’t know about him. Sure, he and Kit could be pretty tough on us, but he looked out for me every day of my life. Remember when I started rowing? He got up at five o’clock every morning to get on the river and call for me, before he had to get to the plant. He hated that job. And I didn’t have to do anything that summer. I got to be home with our mother. But after she died, he actually thanked me. He thanked me.

  You know how much he would rib me about you. He used to say, “You’d better stay on your toes, Wy. That girl will give you a run for your money.” But I know he thought you were a real pip. I think he loved you like his own little sister.

  I guess I just need to talk about him. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you. It feels like parts of me are being cut away. Having my limbs sliced off wouldn’t hurt as much. I keep thinking how it could have been different. If I had gone back with them that night, I could have gotten him home. I could have looked out for him, for a change. I could have kept him from falling.

  The words seeped off the page like quicksand, pulling Susannah into its depths as it pushed the air out of her lungs. How could her mother ask this of her, knowing what she knew? How could Susannah possibly be expected to continue the charade now? It was inconceivable. The weight of it had been crushing before—she had virtually crawled across the stage to the final curtain. The final curtain.

  The book skittered across the floor as she bolted to a potted ficus and retched into the roots. When the spasms ceased, she leaned back against the windowsill, drawing her knees up and bowing her head to stifle the sobs in the flannel of her skirt. But after a while, from the smothering quagmire of guilt and pain, her conscience struggled to the surface and drew a crucial breath. And in the pale light she saw something. She could not abandon Wyatt. However battered and broken she was, she carried a debt—an essential obligation owed to both of the brothers who had loved her.

  It took several days, but, after false starts and torn pages, she finally eked out a response.

  Dear Wyatt,

  I know how you loved him. I know how you’ll miss him. And I know how it must feel to lose him. You will never know the depth of my sorrow for you. You, of all people, don’t deserve this. You deserve to live in the sunlight, happy and carefree and surrounded by all who have loved you. It is an unconscionably cruel fate that could deal such a hand to someone so good as you. I know it will take time, but you have to allow yourself to let the light back into your life. It is what Chap would want. He loved you so. It would dishonor him to allow grief to steal your future. Remember how he taught you to bat—square your stance and keep your eye on the ball. And when you struck out, he laughed and said there will always be another up. I know it doesn’t seem possible, but, Wyatt, you have to heed his words … for your sake and for his.

  There were splotches on several of the words where tears had fallen, but she couldn’t bring herself to copy it over. She signed it hastily and put it in the envelope, licking the seal so fast that she cut her tongue. There was nothing technically false in what she wrote, but the lie at the heart of it glared from the page and she couldn’t look at it.

  It was several weeks before he wrote again. The letter was a rambling collection of reminiscences, and Susannah read it in the bathtub—where the tears could fall freely and no one could hear the ragged, stuttering breaths. Every reference played out as though on film.

  Do you remember when they won the pennant and Kit tackled Chap on the field? And the team piled on and Chap got a black eye?

  She remembered. But she saw things now she hadn’t seen then. The film had color. She saw the lithe figure wheeling backward as he made the winning catch, glove in the air and cap shading his eyes. But what she could also see now was the slant of sunlight as it fell across the angle of a cheekbone, and the unique color of the eyes under the cap, and the hand inside the glove—strong and fine and so perfectly suited to hers.

  Do you remember the time he saved Kit from Ahab?

  It had been Susannah’s idea. She kne
w her brother wouldn’t be able to resist a dare from his youngest sister, and she bet him ten dollars he couldn’t mount the stallion. Everyone knew it was a perilous proposition. Saddling the horse was out of the question; Kit would have to secure the lead rope and get on bareback. He needed to stay on for five seconds—India had been appointed to count. They had all watched in thrilled terror as Kit slipped under the rail of the stall gate, pulling the mounting step in behind him. The thoroughbred’s head turned slowly over his shoulder, eyes wide with disbelief. His flank twitched as Kit put a tentative hand on it. Kit knew he had to be steady and assured as he slid his palm firmly toward Ahab’s shoulder. But as he reached for the rope, the massive ebony chest swung toward him.

  He was cornered against the trough when Chap scrambled to the top of the partition and jackknifed his body over it, leaning down to grab Kit’s shirt. It must have been some kind of supernatural adrenaline that gave him the strength to yank his friend out from under the rearing hooves. Susannah remembered it well—she had been all too aware of her culpability at the time. But as she replayed the scene, she saw now what the ten-year-old girl had not: the cut of a jawline, the sinew of muscle in a forearm, the small crescent-shaped scar just below the left temple.

  It was the next lines that caused her hands to drop, letting the thin sheet sink slowly in the water.

  I heard a song the other day, and it reminded me of all the times he would just make up the words. They would be ridiculous, but they always rhymed.

  She was late for dinner, lingering in the boathouse too long already, but he wouldn’t let her go. He was singing softly into her ear as he moved her slowly around the dusty planks of the floor. It was a song they had danced to the night of her party. He got the first line right, but after that it was all imagination. What’ll I do … when you … are far … away … and I’m so blue … what’ll I do? What’ll I do … when I’m … just standing … here … not kissing … you … what’ll I do? What’ll I do … when you … are in … your bed … and I’m … not next … to you? When I’m alone … with only … Stan … and Stu … I’ll chew … my shoe … that’s what I’ll do.

  She slipped under the water—an instinctive, desperate ablution—and stayed beneath the surface until it seemed her lungs would burst. But there was no relief, no cleansing. When she finally gasped for air, all she had to show for the act was the sodden, illegible page disintegrating into scraps.

  It was as she rose from the bathtub that she was granted a deliverance, of sorts, from her abjection. There was a long, hinged mirror fastened to a spindle on the wall. It was designed to be positioned at any angle—a convenient accessory to the dressing toilette. And at that moment, it happened to be tilted such that when Susannah looked across the room, she was presented with the answer to the riddle of her skirt waists, buttoning ever tighter. And the dawning spread over her like holy oil.

  She kept the secret to herself. It was all there was; it was everything. She didn’t dwell on eventualities. It would become apparent soon enough, but until then she would cleave to the prerogative. Moving through her daily routine in quasi-isolation, she managed to maintain her studies, if not her friendships. Her detachment was attributed to the shock of the accident, of course—to the loss of a dear family friend. But her acquaintances weren’t the only ones who found the change in her behavior a bit mystifying. Hollins pulled his wife aside on more than one occasion, worrying that their youngest daughter was suffering an incommensurate despair.

  “I’m a bit concerned that Susannah has sunken so low—it’s as if her entire personality has changed. I wouldn’t have expected this type of sensitivity from her. India, yes. That’s obvious. Even Kit—he has lost his other half, as it were. But I just can’t figure why this has utterly taken the wind from Sassy’s sails. Maybe she should see a doctor.”

  It was just after this conversation that Helen surprised her daughter in the bedroom. And thus, Susannah did see a doctor, but not the type her father had meant.

  The ride home from Dr. Schulman’s office had been a silent one, save the conventional exchanges with Jimmy. Helen followed her daughter into the house, speaking covertly. “While you were dressing, I had a word with the doctor. We have his complete confidence.” She was taking off her gloves as Susannah walked away from her, up the stairway to her bedroom. Moments later Helen appeared in the doorway. “By that I mean, no one has to know. Not even your father.”

  Susannah looked at her blankly. Having a baby wasn’t something that people simply didn’t notice.

  Helen could see that her daughter wasn’t following; she stepped into the room and sat down on a slipper chair by the dressing table, clearing her throat. “I’m afraid you may not be seeing things clearly, Susannah. Things that must be considered. I’ve reflected deeply on this—don’t think for a moment that I haven’t. My emotional stock may not be equal to yours, but it is immense. Chap is gone, and yet a part of him lives on. I’m not insensitive to that. But so many factors weigh in the balance. Taking them all into consideration, it becomes clear that the answer has to be the Episcopal Society. They will place the baby in an excellent home—I have assurances. Until then, I believe you’ll be able to finish the term and graduate, without … detection.” She ran her fingers absently over the fabric of a blousy frock, draped over the garment valet next to the chair. “And then, ostensibly, you’ll take the European tour with Grandmother, as planned. You should know that I’ve confided in her. She agrees it’s the only course, and she’s willing to help.”

  The bed creaked as Susannah sat down hard, with an expression of utter disbelief. “I’m not giving this baby away.” It was out of the question. It was like when Pericles had died and her father had suggested she might want another horse. But even more outrageous. Even more insulting.

  Helen closed her eyes. After a moment, she drew a deep breath and looked at her daughter. “Susannah, listen to me. Chap is gone. The baby would not have a father. And you would be something less than a widow. A mother on her own, without even the history of a husband. I’m not talking about public speculation or social repercussions—that’s of the least concern to me. But as your mother, I have to think of your future. It could mean a life alone, without a partner at your side. You’re so young. Your whole life is in front of you. Your education, your freedom…” She shook her head sadly. “And, my dear, there’s something else. Someone else. Think about Wyatt. It would destroy him. Everything he knows and feels about Chap … it would rob him of the image, the memories … his entire conception of brotherhood. Think of the pain. He can’t suffer the loss twice. You can protect him from that. In this terrible tragedy, the one salvation is that Wyatt need never know. It is one wound you can spare him.”

  It was true, and it cut to the quick, but Susannah parried with a stony, penetrating question. “What about Charles?”

  She had her mother there. Charles had been flattened by the loss of his son. To keep this secret from him—the existence of a grandchild, of Chap’s legacy—could be considered criminal. Helen bowed her head. “I know what you’re saying. I’ve been sleepless over that, too.” She sighed. “There’s nothing easy here, Sass.” She thought for a moment, wringing her hands. “We don’t have to make any final decisions now. But the wisest course is to leave all options open, which means we keep the situation private. We protect the possibilities.” It was clear she had honed her argument. Susannah just stared at the floor as her mother continued. “There’s one other person in whom I’ve confided—someone who’s willing to help. You may have heard that Sarah Janssen married an Amish boy. Doe misses her terribly, and she would welcome you at Grange House. You can stay there until the baby is born. The timing will coincide your return from the putative trip abroad. It will give us—you—time to consider things.”

  Susannah’s silence was taken for assent. And she did agree to go to Grange House. Keeping the secret to herself for a bit longer was a dividend; she cherished the intimacy of it. But, if Helen was u
nder the impression that her daughter was weighing the other matter, she was wrong.

  Three days after graduation, Susannah waved to her mother from the train platform, trunk at her side and carpetbag at her waist. Her father had said his goodbyes that morning, before he’d left for the office. She had returned his embrace rather awkwardly, keeping a stiff distance as he patted her back and pecked her cheek—but his parting words were a bit unsettling: “Bon voyage, darling. Good luck with your grandmother … and stay away from the strudel.”

  At the station, a sudden unspecific ailment caused Helen to instruct Jimmy to take her home, curtailing the send-off and leaving Susannah alone there … until Doe and Nico pulled up in the battered work truck. Since then, she had been sequestered at Grange House, while Grandmother Avery sent postcards from Paris and Florence and Vienna. That the tidings were never in Susannah’s hand did not give anyone pause. Rumor had it that Grandmother Avery had been a close acquaintance of Lewis Carroll, and that Charlotte Hastings Avery was the unquestionable inspiration for the Queen of Hearts. As such, it surprised no one that the woman took the matter of correspondence into her own hands. India had walked that floor herself, having taken her tour with Grandmother two years prior. She knew who held the quill.

  As it happened, the fictitious distance had a collateral benefit. As winter turned to spring, Wyatt’s letters had continued to arrive. Painstakingly, Susannah had scratched out replies, but she couldn’t contrive even a twig of the ready support Wyatt had known when his mother had died. Being “out of the country” meant she wouldn’t have to struggle through another excruciating, elliptical effort. And because he believed she wouldn’t be there, Wyatt had decided not to return to Bethlehem for the summer. He would stay in New Haven, practicing with the crew.